


Lost in Your Eyes

by KassieProphet



Series: Ghost Prompts [28]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost B.C.
Genre: Gen, Intrigue, No Smut, drinking to excess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Tumblr Prompts:What if papa iii gets curious why copia has the same eye thing as his bloodline?
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III & Cardinal Copia
Series: Ghost Prompts [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536134
Comments: 27
Kudos: 26





	Lost in Your Eyes

The Emeritus bloodline. It goes back generations, some say to the Olde One himself—though that’s just a rumor. There had been the generation when they thought the heir lost—until a young Sister of Sin had met him at a party and activated his powers. (Although that story too is mostly exaggeration and embellishment from the man himself.)

One thing’s for certain, however—the Mark of the line is always one dark eye, one white. Nihil earned his after Sister Imperator had performed some rite to awaken the demon in him (not—as Nihil tells it—because she punched him in the face and it was awesome), and his sons had been born with Lucifer’s favor in place.

So when The Cardinal rocks up into the Clergy, Papa Emeritus III is aghast and flabbered to meet the man’s gaze only to find his own mismatched eyes meeting in a mirror mismatch. Copia doesn’t seem to feel anything is out of place—at least, not with the eyes … he does make a low, nervous rat noise when all Papa III does is stare at him, mouth agape.

When Papa storms into Sister Imperator’s office later demanding, “What the  _ fanculo _ ?!” she just smiles up at him in that imperious way of hers.

“It’s a gift from our Dark Lord. You didn’t think your bloodline was the only ones unblessed with his favor, did you? Oh … you did, didn’t you?”

It sends a chill down his spine, and he backs out of her office even as he’s cursing her in his head. It isn’t until he’s back in his quarters that he realizes she didn’t actually answer his question.  _ Obviously  _ it’s a mark of Satan—what he wants to know is  _ how _ .

He embarks on a quest to figure out just how this is possible. He sends one of his Ghouls to the restricted area of the Abbey library for research, as he endeavors to ingratiate himself to The Cardinal so he can mine him for information. And it’s … kind of … fun? Copia is all wide eyes and stammering responses, even when all Papa does is sit next to him in the mess hall.

“Ah, Cardi … pasta again? Here, have some of my kale.”

“I-I, um. T-thank you, your Dark Excellency.”

Papa III waits, head resting on his hand, and he watches Copia force himself to chew and swallow the leafy greens.

“Mmm,” Copia manages to choke out.

_ Fun _ .

* * *

A week goes by. 

Then another.

His Ghoul can find nothing other than the obvious in the ancient tomes: that those who bear His Mark are Favored by Him. There’s nothing on  _ how _ or  _ why _ , and only the recent history of his bloodline has any kind of record that includes names and circas.

Copia—while fucking adorable—never even comes close to letting any intimate detail slip. He’s all “my last Abbey” this and “this interesting translation” that and “I hear it’s ravioli night.” So Papa decides to bring out the big guns.

He passes The Cardinal in the hall, falling into line with his stride.

“We have a guys night, yes, Cardi?”

Copia jumps half out of skin.

“Uh w-what? Your Dark Excellency?”

“Guys. Night. We have a slumber party, no? I can tell you all my secrets. Mostly: moisturize.”

Copia frowns at him, and Papa III smacks his eyebrow furrow.

“And no frowning! Ai! No wonder you have parentesi.”

* * *

Papa III orders all the usuals for one of his liaisons … then remembers this is not a liaison and has the oysters taken away. He’s halfway through blowing out the candles when he reconsiders that having some candles might add some spooky ambiance, so he leaves the rest be. He’s in his favorite silk robe—which again:  _ not _ a liaison—so he changes into his monogrammed silk pajamas.

Copia shows up at his door in the fugliest set of flannel pajamas—black and dotted with cartoon rats and cheese—and a bottle of port.

“Ah, Cardi!  _ Entra _ .”

The Cardinal looks around Papa III’s chambers, hesitates.

“Am I early, Papa?”

“Early?”

“ _ Sí _ . I appear to be the first arrival.”

Papa  _ techts _ and waves his comment away.

“I already know their secrets. This is just for you and me, eh? A—hmm— _ icebreaker _ .”

Before The Cardinal can back out, Papa closes the door behind him and ushers him further into his quarters with a guiding hand on the small of his back. He leads Copia to the cushions, which are arranged on the floor around a tray of goodies.

“Sit, dear Cardi. Have a bit of cheese. Some prosciutto.”

As The Cardinal awkwardly arranges himself cross legged on the floor, Papa III pours them both a shot’s worth of grappa into his crystal tumblers. He hands Copia a glass—who accepts it with a soft  _ grazie _ —and then lowers himself on the cushions to lounge on his side.

“Okie dokie. Now we play a little truth or truth. No answer, you drink. Now,  _ per favore _ ,” Papa III says as he makes a sweeping  _ after you _ gesture.

Copia takes a sip of the grappa, humming in approval, before speaking.

“Uh. Papa—who is your favorite of all your harem?”

“ _ Boring _ . It is whoever is in my bed at the time. When you make love it must be with your everything! Can I give my everything to a second favorite? No! My turn! Fuck, marry, kill: my older brother, our dear Imperator, and the Ghoul known as Special. Go!”

“I, uh…”

Copia makes a pained face, then downs his grappa. Papa chuckles even as he’s reaching for the bottle to refill Copia’s glass.

“Already, Cardi? Pace yourself.”

It becomes Papa III’s mission to ask Copia the most uncomfortable questions to get him to opt out, while he answers every single one. Soon enough, Copia is pie-eyed and slurring. He knocks the nibbles tray over with a  _ whoopsie _ , before proceeding to shovel the fallen cheese and cured meat into his mouth saying  _ These cheeses can be mine _ . Papa feels a little bad, but not enough to stop pressing for answers.

“Ah, a man after mine own heart. No waste!” He pats The Cardinal on his meaty thigh. “So much in common you and I, Cardi.”

Copia looks up at him, prosciutto dangling out of his mouth.

“You have rats?”

“I—no, Cardi.”

“I love mes ratsties, Papa. Oh! I should cheese them.”

Copia reaches out a drunk-numb hand to fumble at the cheeses, and then proceeds to stuff them in his chest pocket.

“ _ Shh _ —don’t tell them.”

“Ok, Copia.”

As The Cardinal mumbles to himself about his rats, Papa decides to make him an espresso from his fancy machine. By the time he’s got a tiny cup for them both ready, Copia is half asleep on the cushions, cheese particles stuck in his mustache. It’s a little bit of a struggle—sleepy, drunk Copia is fussy—but Papa III manages to get him to sit up and drink the caffeine.

“Ah.  _ Grazie _ , Papa.”

“ _ Non è niente _ ,  _ caro Cardinale _ . Not when we are so similar.”

“Similar?”

“ _ Sí _ . We are both men envied by the many. And we bear  _ the gift _ .”

Copia tried to focus his eyes on him.

“A gift?”

“ _ Sí _ ,” says Papa. He reaches out and smooths a fingertip over Copia’s eyebrow before tapping at his white eye. “Was it dear?”

Copia squints. “Was what dear?”

“The price for the gift.”

Copia frowns. “Itssa secret.”

Papa III pouts and crosses his arms in a hurt affectation.

“Secrets, secrets,  _ secrets _ . All night I have bared my soul to you. And yet you give  _ niente _ in return. Perhaps I have misjudged you, no? You are only here to  _ take _ .”

The Cardinal makes a wounded noise, and—again—Papa feels a little guilty at his game.

“No, Papa—no. It—I  _ can’t _ .”

Papa turns away from The Cardinal.

“Perhaps you should be going.”

There’s a long pause—and Papa III thinks maybe he pushed too hard—but eventually he hears Copia sigh.

“I am not in the knowing, Papa. My eyes have always been thus. The sister in charge of the orphan wing always said my  _ madre _ made the deal—and she disappeared with no trace before I became a man.”

Papa turns back around.

“An … orphan?”

“ _ Sí _ .”

Papa  _ tsks _ . “How hard for you, dear Cardi. Let’s to bed, no?”

It’s no mean feat getting the stumbling-drunk Cardinal onto the futon, but Papa III manages it with a modicum of whining (Copia’s) and a minimum of stubbed toes (also Copia’s). He rolls The Cardinal into a fluffy burrito, and even sets out some water and ibuprofen for him.

* * *

The Cardinal who wakes up—hungover as fuck—is not the same loosey-goosey man from the night before. If at all possible, he’s even shier, and he apologizes multiple times for anything “untoward” he may have done or said the night before. He apparently was totally blackout drunk.

Papa III  _ does _ feel bad—Copia is an alarming shade of green, and the easy camaraderie they developed is gone—but it means that Copia doesn’t remember that he spilled his secret. Papa doesn’t stop courting Copia’s friendship—although he dials the aggression down a notch—but he does turn his focus elsewhere.

Whether or not Sister Imperator realizes the scrutiny she’s now under is anyone’s guess—the woman could give Mona Lisa a run for her money.


End file.
